The Walk down Paths of Difference
by Cyrin-Dara
Summary: Something I wanted to bring out, about Faramir and Boromir as young boys when their father already began to treat them differently and favoured the other. I might continue it to until they are grown up and their paths divide... please R+R. ^.^


1 Walking Down the Path of Difference  
  
  
  
Chapter 1 – Friends and Foes Alike  
  
Author's note: I felt like doing this because well…Faramir and Boromir are both such interesting characters, which I'm sure they've got an interesting history, which I'm bursting to bring out! You might find my style slightly different, as I will be using more conversations here and probably less descriptions as I've filled my other stories with, though I will still include them!  
  
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me (Faramir, Boromir, Denethor, etc) I am only using them for the meantime.  
  
  
  
Two young boys of no older than 14 ran through the orderly streets of Minas Tirith, ducking behind the shadow of buildings, obviously to avoid being seen by any of the busy, armed men that went marching neatly by the great walls and fortresses of Gondor. One boy was slightly taller than the second, with jet black hair and bright grey eyes, being chased quickly by the other, a fair-haired, green eyed lad who was strong and burly and swift.  
  
"Stop right there, Faramir! Father will get angry!" the latter shouted in a demanding voice, one that was proud and not used to being disobeyed. Faramir, the black-haired boy turned his head back for a moment, and smirked, eyes sparkling, and ran on. They passed many stone buildings and a market, where people turned to stare at the two boys, recognizing them as the sons of the Lord of Gondor, and whispering to one another in gossip.  
  
"Are those not two of the sons of the Lord--?" an man, asked a bent old lady.  
  
"Might be, the fair one is surely Boromir, always favoured I hear." She replied. And yes, that had been true, for amongst all sons of Denethor, Boromir was constantly the one he chose to entertain, always the one who earns the most merits, always the one who Denethor provides the best armoury, always the one the Steward of Gondor took pride in. Faramir knew of this, and said nothing, for he had managed to control his emotions and even pain to the heart. And also, he loved his brother. Although he would never go downright to saying those words to him and though it would seem like rivalry on the outside, the care and love was still existent, no matter how deep buried in his heart. But right now, the two brothers ran on hardly thinking of any such things, one clearly having fun, the other idignant on his father's behalf.  
  
"Stop * right * now, Faramir!" Boromir yelled, laying his hand on his sword hilt as he ran, trying not to catch anyone's eye at this misbehavior he rarely presented. "Or I shall tell father!"  
  
Faramir, however, did not seem to mind this rash threat and called back, "You just can't catch me!" At this, Boromir, annoyed and angry that he was being disobeyed, drew out his sword and chased after. One living in Gondor, at that time would immediately understand the child's play in it, for children were taught to duel very early then, and practising with peers or friends were perfectly normal and hardly anyone got seriously injured. "Come back here and fight then!" Boromir yelled.  
  
"Not if you come and get me!" was the gleeful reply. However, Faramir did draw out his sword as well. Now they had come to the edge of a tall hill—one of the Emyn Arnen, overlooking smooth and fertile field of Pelennor below, with long slopes of terraces that fell into the deep levels of the Great Anduin. They had only the vast sky above them and the White Mountains in the distance.  
  
Boromir reached his brother in time before he sped recklessly down the steep hill, and quickly, in fear of Faramir's safety and of his own honour, he dropped his sword and leapt forward, pinning his brother to the ground. Faramir fought roughly and threw Boromir off him; and soon enough with spirits stirred and strength fresh, they began to wrestle. The sun began to set in the West and the last rays of the sun illuminated the firey sky, as they tumbled and fought, and became very rowdy. Boromir, finally seeing a chance to retrieve what he had dropped, lunged for his sword and was up and about in moments, the two no longer wrestling but dueling. The sound of clashing steel sounded through the quiet sky, as they went back and forth, taking their fencing lessons into practice.  
  
"You are trying obviously in vain, dear brother!" Boromir said, launching a stroke on Faramir's side, obviously all dignity-forgotten, as his pride in himself took over.  
  
"If in vain means to gain victory, which I soon will, then in vain I am!" His brother returned, laughing carefreely, while blocking the blade with his own. The two went on, stroke after stroke after stroke, as the sun slowly descended down the jagged peaks of the White Mountains and until the light of it, still bright in the sky remained. Finally, Faramir saw his chance: As he blocked a heavy blow from his shoulders, his blade connected with his brother's and with all his might, he threw it off himself and sent it twisting out of Boromir's hands, landing with a CLANK on the ground. And like a gentleman, he bent down and handed it back to him; secretly, he felt rather dismayed he had won, because then he knew he had gained victory for the meantime. His brother, both stubborn and resolute, would surely not take his losing easily and would vow to prove better than Faramir, if all his life depended on it. Still, Faramir grinned happily and said,  
  
"Well how's that?" Boromir frowned, seemingly to himself, and did not reply. "At least I beat once!" he added quickly, placing his sword in his scabbard. He walked cautiously over his brother and just when he thought something was going to happen, it did—Boromir leapt atop him suddenly and pushed him once more to the ground, and together they rolled—entirely out of control—down the grassy hill, as the world spun around them.  
  
With a light thud, they landed luckily on a soft spot where the grass grew tall and springy. Boromir got up first, and without dusting himself off, shouted, "The battle does not end yet!" And they continued on. The sun was far below the horizon by now and evening dawned upon them, as the first stars twinkled out beneath the darkening sky. Faramir began to grow anxious, but seeing the resolute look on his brother's face, he mentioned nothing. But finally, both grew weary and exhausted, however Boromir, seeking a last chance to defeat his opponent—defeat however, not injure—, aimed a light stroke at Faramir's arm—and it was true. Faramir, not having time to block it, leapt aside a moment too late, as the blade came swishing swiftly down and ripped his thin mail. A long but shallow gash opened in his right arm and blood gushed out freely. Boromir, mixed with ambivalence, sheathed his sword and went over to his brother immediately, with a mingled look of pride and concern etched upon his fair face.  
  
"You are hurt," he said, peering at the wound. "If you had worn your black mail as I had instructed, then you would have been alright." Faramir made no reply at first, but squeezed the infected blood out and tore a bit of his shirt and wrapped it around his arm.  
  
"It is but a little scar." He said valiantly and he wiped his sweaty brow with a sleeve. "We must go now, before night falls."  
  
"Then you admit I won?"  
  
But Faramir had respect for himself as well. "We are equal." He said and began to march up the hill, sliding slightly. "If you would like to finish it now, then your victory is obvious." Boromir ruffled his hair and stared at the sky.  
  
"No we must go now. You are injured and father is undoutedly already fuming at our absence and he warned us never to go as far as the Lossar—" He broke off midsentence as a voice from somewhere above them shouted,  
  
"You there! Show your face and come up now!" By the dull light of the stars and the remainder of the sunlight, they saw only a shadow of whoever spoke. But they knew it was one of their father's men(though he did not know that it was indeed the Stewards sons) and began their ascend slowly, with worn- out spirits. "Now, we're done for." Boromir muttered bitterly. "What are you ashamed about?" Faramir asked, half to himself. "It's only the first time * you've * been caught in trouble." Before long, amazingly quicker than their roll downhill, they were up at its top facing the city once again, with a tall, stocky man of no older than 25 standing in front of them, long black cloak waving in the cool breeze.  
  
"Why, it is you Boromir and you, Faramir!" he cried upon seeing the two worn-out figures. "I have never seen the two of you together in a long time… I am greatly sorry for misacknowledging you." He bowed.  
  
"Hello Beregond," Faramir said, smiling weakly. "You need not be so happy on seeing us, for we know we will have to be reported…" Boromir kept silent, obviously not looking forward to their meeting with the Steward of Gondor.  
  
"Reported?" Beregond inquired. "Yes, you shall have to be…. Why, you missed the Farewell Feast for the young Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth!" This did not improve either of their moods. Without further conversations, they trudged slowly up to the City, with Beregond glancing feverently once in a while at their dirty faces, wondering what they had been up to.  
  
* * *  
  
"You have been where?!" A lordly man of great height and strength shouted, rising from his high, elaborate chair to face the two bedraggled boys. He had a trace of nobility about his face, both fair and stern and his eyes—greyish blue and hard, where flashing and as cold as ice at this moment. Boromir was keeping his eyes fixed on the marble ground, next to his brother Faramir, who's eyes were locked firmly on the Lord's, but strayed occasionally to Beregond, who stood at their side.  
  
"We were around the city and at the Emyn Arnen and the Pelonnor fields." Boromir said truthfully, not looking up. The Lord changed his manner of speech and his eyes softened as he looked upon his favorite son. "And why were you there?" he asked, no longer demanding, but inquiring.  
  
"I suggested it, Father." Faramir answered for him in a clear voice. "It was boring and I wanted to do something fun." Denethor turned quickly and his eyes flashed once again.  
  
"Boring?" he voiced loudly. "Boring? Minas Tirith and the entire Gondor itself is not a playground for * bored * children, do you hear? It is a great city of power and might!" He spun to Boromir again and asked, "Surely * you *  
  
understand that?"  
  
"I do Father." He replied and looked up, face valiant once more and determined. "I am sorry."  
  
Faramir muttered his apologies and blew his hair out of his eyes. Denethor went back to his seat and shook his head slowly. "If I hear one more report from any of you," he looked from Boromir to Faramir (whereupon his expression hardened). "20 lashes on the back it shall be, do you hear? For the meantime, Faramir shall receive 50 de-merits, as it was his idea. And you—" he said to Boromir. "Shall receive 20. Now begone!" The two boys left, Faramir not commenting on the unfairness of his father, Boromir holding up his head high once again, no longer abashed.  
  
"Well, good night." Faramir said, turning left at the door.  
  
"I certainly hope it had been one for you, brother." Boromir returned and turned the other way.  
  
  
  
Authors note: Well, what do you think? I know it's still a bit rough, but tell me your comments and tell me whether I should continue or not! I only took me one day and a night to do it, so I might make some improvements… so please Review and tell me whether I should continue or not! ^.^ 


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